


Her Divine Majority

by cakeisnotpie



Series: Sexuality Series [3]
Category: Leverage, Marvel, Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Leverage Fusion, Asexual Character, Asexual Natasha, Asexual Relationship, Asexuality, F/M, M/M, Multi, Threesome - F/M/M, biromantic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-03
Updated: 2015-03-03
Packaged: 2018-03-16 04:57:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3475289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cakeisnotpie/pseuds/cakeisnotpie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A warm hand dropped on her shoulder, a gentle touch that stilled her. Gazing up into Phil’s blue eyes, she wasn’t sure she wanted to see the concern there, the extra emotion laced around the edges. “It’s important to me; you shouldn’t have to do anything that makes you uncomfortable.” </p>
<p>The closest he’d ever come to acknowledging her sexuality; the statement sent a tendril of heat through Natasha, a tingle of response. What were the odds of finding two men who understood? That the three of them would wind up here, together, the most successful strike team in SHIELD?</p>
<p>Part of my sexuality series</p>
            </blockquote>





	Her Divine Majority

**Author's Note:**

> Part of my sexuality series.
> 
> Asexual Natasha, Biromantic Natasha & Clint, Natasha & Coulson, Clint/Coulson
> 
> And here's my first attempt at writing asexuality. Such a big term, asexuality encompasses a broad spectrum of behavior. This story is just one exploration of a character who has no desire for the act of sex but enjoys the full romantic range of intimacy. To be clear, I have NO intention of saying that Natasha is asexual because of her training at the Red Room. In fact, the first scenes make clear, I hope, that the Red Room training encourages pansexuality. 
> 
> As always, this is a fluff story with a happy ending. There are a few moments when Natasha feels conflicted about sex and some suggestions that she engaged in sexual behavior against her will when she was younger (very brief). 
> 
> I don't know how Eliot Spencer worked his way into this story. But here he is.

_The Soul selects her own Society —_   
_Then — shuts the Door —_   
_To her divine Majority —_   
_Present no more —_   
  
_Unmoved — she notes the Chariots — pausing —_   
_At her low Gate —_   
_Unmoved — an Emperor be kneeling_   
_Upon her Mat —_   
  
_I’ve known her — from an ample nation —_   
_Choose One —_   
_Then — close the Valves of her attention —_   
_Like Stone —_

 

_ Emily Dickinson _

 

“Men are easy,” the matron intoned from her podium at the front of the room. “They think with their dicks; get them erect and they’re yours to control. Women take time; today we’ll be learning how to create the illusion of romance and to pleasure a woman in bed. Often, the easiest way to your object is through a woman’s bed.”

 

The girls in the room, uniform in their grey dresses and impassive faces, watched the slides as the matron moved through them, pointing to body parts. No giggles, no whispers, just total silence as they absorbed the lesson. The youngest sat in front, eight-years-old with long braids; in the back, the age ranged from twelve to fifteen, those about ready to graduate to the next level.

 

They filed out in a single line, feet in perfect step. Time only to change into black shorts and a plain white t-shirt before three hours of training then a dinner of boiled potatoes and dense brown bread. Target practice, weapons breakdown and cleaning, until darkness set in. The shower water was cold but that didn’t stop the fumbling touches of hands and mouths in the corners, guarded from sight by other girls who waited their turn for their chance for a moment of release. Experimenting with what they’d learned, chasing  one brief instance of coming of age. Exploring their bodies in the relative safety between the sheets

 

In her bed, on her back, staring up at the concrete ceiling, shivering under her thin scratchy blanket, Natasha tuned out the sighs and muted groans around her. Instead, she pretended warm arms held her, humming softly as she relaxed; she dozed, never truly sleeping, ready to be on guard at a moment’s notice

 

* * *

 

 

She was fourteen when she lost her virginity to gain information from a British Consulate officer. Sixteen the first time she seduced a woman, that governor’s wife in Argentina. By twenty, she’d been on suppressants for five years and hadn’t had a period in years. She could fake an orgasm in thirty seven different ways and make a man come in less than fifteen seconds. She’d taken lovers -- those she slept with because she wanted to not because it was part of a mission -- and tried to understand what all the fuss was about. Sex made men stupid, romances robbed women of their brains -- that’s what Natasha knew.

 

“You are so good,” Ivanna … no, Valerie. They all had American names now … whispered in her ear, the sound little more than a rush of air. In the dark of the safe house, they lay under the covers, wound together for warmth. No light, no heat, nothing to say they were there or ever had been. “You didn’t even blink; your knife found its mark just as he came. I can only dream of being as good as you are.”

 

Natasha didn’t want to be good. She didn’t want more blood on her hands, didn’t want to prey on men’s desires and women’s emotions. What she wanted to was feel safe, to be able to trust someone, anyone. Feeling no pull for sex might make her better at her job, but she felt like she was missing … lacking an important part.

 

Two years later, when Valerie tried to kill her, Natasha remembered the press of Valerie’s breasts against her skin, how her arms rested along Natasha’s side and her breath warmed Natasha’s neck. As she snapped Valerie’s neck, Natasha felt a tiny twinge of regret, not for the woman who’d crossed the line into insanity, but the girl Ivana who was afraid of the dark and hummed as she fell asleep.

 

* * *

 

 

“I’d peg you for a woman who drinks her liquor straight,” he said as he settled into the seat next to her at the bar. “Question is, vodka or scotch?”

 

HIs name was Eliot Spencer and he’d been on to her for days. A bodyguard of another interested party, he’d taken one look at her party girl personae and known she was more than that. But he was a mercenary, paid to do a job, and as soon as he figured out his employer wasn’t her target, he’d played along, never letting on to anyone else.

 

“Depends upon the brand.” She tapped her fingers on the wooden surface and smiled at him. Of course, she’d done her homework and knew all there was to know about Eliot. Texan, a rambler at heart, he was a well-respected retrieval specialist. Ex special ops, Eliot had a reputation of getting the job done with extreme effectiveness.But more than that, he was a protector, a man with his own rules that he lived by.

 

“Russian Premium,” Eliot ordered from the bartender; his smiled at her, his blue eyes crinkling. Tonight, he’d pulled his shoulder length brown hair back in a ponytail. “Two shots each. Iced.”

 

Natasha let him pick her up; she was more than capable of handling herself and she was feeling particularly lonely. The shattering of the Red Room operatives had left her without specific directives, and she had a string of angry people who wanted her dead. A hallmark of her success, the number of kills, her phantom nature made her a legend. Now it haunted her during the day not just at night. Plus, there was something about Eliot, a sort of kindred spirit she sensed in his voice and what could be understanding in his blue eyes.

 

They ended up in a moderate priced hotel room; Natasha thought he’d want it hard and fast, but Eliot had different ideas. He undressed her slowly, laid her out on the bed, and stroked her skin with his calloused hands. Careful kisses, he worked his way over her body, watching her eyes for a reaction. If she let her lids sink closed, she could feel a stir of warmth at the very light touches, grazes of fingertips, a gentle petting. Faking her moans was easy; she wanted to give Eliot the satisfaction. She’d like to keep this feeling of being worshipped and overwhelmed by touch, like she was fragile and worth protecting.

 

Even when he inevitably moved to the darker curls between her legs, he still focused on making her orgasm his goal. So she turned the tables, flipping him over and yanking off his jeans. It didn’t take long to get him ready, open a condom and sink down on his cock. Thing was, sex didn’t hurt; she often thought of it as … pleasant at its best and boring at its worst. She simply didn’t get anything out of the act itself. Didn’t get a rush of heat, no shattering, gushing, falling over the edge or any other of the euphemisms she read in books.

 

But this time, as Eliot’s hands held her hips and his hips arched up to meet hers, she watched his eyes go fuzzy, his mouth open on a half-groan, his breathy sigh filling the air. His passion was contagious; she enjoyed being the one to give it to him. Faking her own orgasm and squeezing tight around him, she made him come; he moaned, his handsome face going slack.

 

Natasha went to roll off and escape to the bathroom like she always did, but Eliot’s hands slid up to her waist and around her back, tugging her until she was laying on his chest, her breasts pressed between them,  He slipped out of her, but didn’t move, nuzzling his nose into her hair. Body warmth seeped into her, and she exhaled, relaxing against him, syncing their breathing.

 

“Do you want to stay?” he asked, running a hand along her back. “Or are we going our separate ways?”

 

“You looking for a round two?” Natasha asked.

 

“Not necessarily,” he replied. “Might surprise you, but I’m a cuddler. Most people in our profession aren’t too keen on sleeping together. Just sleeping.”

 

“That sounds … nice.” She wouldn’t sleep, she never did when someone else was in the room; hell, she didn’t really sleep deep until her body forced her to and only then when she was in a safe house with a ridiculous level of security.

 

He smiled lazily and kissed the top of her head. “Be right back.”

 

When he spooned up behind her, he carefully didn’t press his crotch into her, leaving his arms loose enough for her to get comfortable and not feel claustrophobic. Slowly, his breathing evened out and Natasha grew warm as she relaxed as much as she ever did. Drifting into a meditative state, aware and ready to react instantly, a tendril of heat unfurled in her gut, spiraling up her spine and warming her whole body. Just once, she could give herself this, convince herself it was intimacy between two people. She was never going to find someone she could trust enough for the real thing. She’d be gone before Eliot woke and she’d never see him again.

 

* * *

 

 

She was wrong. Eliot Spencer was a busy man; she ran into him in Dubai and again in Hamburg. They never went head-to-head; the one time he was between her and her mission, she avoided him, going with option three as the most effective plan. In Pocona City, things went wrong; Eliot pulled her ass out of the fire, taking a bullet along the way, and Natasha took him to one of her safe houses, patching him up and crawling in bed with him, curling next to his warmth, watching over him all night long. But every time, she slipped out and disappeared without a goodbye.

 

* * *

 

 

He sat down in the plastic chair across from Natasha, dropping his non-government issued sunglasses on the fake wood grain. Up close, she got a good look at the man who’d been tracking her for a full week. The best she’d seen since James, this guy kept finding her no matter what she did. Piercing blue grey eyes … or maybe blue green … or silver … cut right through her mask and saw into the very heart of Natasha’s exhaustion and growing lethargy. It was time, and she knew it.

 

“Is that still hot?” He asked, pointing to Natasha’s half empty cup.

 

Shrugging, she nudged it over to him. “Should be.”

 

Drinking, he grimaced at the sweet peppermint flavor, but he took a good pull before he sat it back down. “Cold as a witch’s tit out there,” he commented, the phrase giving away his heritage -- which was why he did it, of course.

 

“You can go home any time,” she remarked.

 

“You don’t want me to do that.” He sat back in the chair and stretched out his muscular thighs, crossing his arms over his chest and making his biceps bulge. “You want me to make the offer because you’re ready to come in.”

 

The laugh tore from her throat, as much about surprise as his surety. “You know that?”

 

“Yep.” He sat the now empty cup down. “I can recognize a kindred spirit when I see one.”

 

She started to protest but his eyes pulled her in, a distant hint of loss and pain ringing the multi-colored irises. His reputation was that he never missed; the whispers said his vision was beyond normal, his reflexes a shade too fast. The same sort of things they said about her. She wondered what had made those shadows in his eyes, haunted and never truly at ease.

 

“Just listen to the offer, okay?” He leaned forward, closing the distance. “It’s a good deal, but if you don’t want it, I’ll let you walk out of here and right into the gauntlet of assassins on your trail.”

 

At least four of the best were gunning for her. She’d burned her bridges in the last few years, cleaning up loose ends. Her days were numbered. “What does SHIELD want with a burned asset? They’d really work with someone with my resume?”

 

“They took me,” he said with a shrug. “And I bet you know everything there is to know about me. You’re kind of scary like that.”

 

The chuckle caught her off guard; it bubbled up before she could stop it. “Doing my homework is scary?”

 

“Yep,” he agreed. “The rest is just bad ass.”

 

This time she laughed, a quick sound that she covered with her hand. “Oh, I can see you earned your reputation. You expect me to believe I can just waltz into the organization, join the new recruit class and be all that I can be?”

 

“Yeah, it’s a hard sell, I get that. I didn’t buy it for the first few years either. I won’t say SHIELD is perfect -- there are some real assholes just like everywhere -- but I get a choice about assignments and I have a nice warm bed to go home to. Plus, the pay’s decent and there’s major medical including mental health coverage. Haven’t tried any of the shrinks but I hear they’re not all jerkwads.”

 

“And what does your handler have to say about this little offer? Because I know you were sent with a kill order.” She watched for the slightest shifting in his eyes, a pulling back, but instead saw a glimmer of humor and got a bold wink instead.

 

“He’s one of the assholes. Take the shot, Barton. I don’t care what you see, Barton. You had one fucking job to do, Barton. No one pays you to think, Barton. Fortunately, his boss is a different story. You’ll like the Assistant Director. Straight shooter who takes no shit off of anyone. He’d rather have you on our side than dead.”

 

She wouldn’t let a smooth line or a handsome face distract her. Nor was she going to fall for the ‘we just want to bring you in’ argument. Time in isolation, proving herself trustworthy, taking shit jobs … she had no illusions about what she’d be in for. Still, what would Dachinko think when she showed up wearing a SHIELD badge? Or when Christov had SHIELD agents beating down his door? And somewhere, deep inside, in the place she only acknowledged in the deepest hour of the night, she wondered if she could sleep for more than 20 minutes and maybe find someone to share her bed, someone who wanted nothing more than companionship.

 

“I’ll have to think about it,” she told him.

 

“Of course. I’ll duck the team until 3:30. Call me if you decide you want to blow this popsicle stand.” He rattled off a number in Russian. “I’ll get the message.”

 

“Your accent is terrible,” she complained. “If that’s the best SHIELD can do, I have no respect for their language instruction.”

 

“All I know is pigeon Russian that I learned from the bearded lady in the circus. I can order food and count to ten. That’s about it.” He pushed back his chair and stood up. “I’d get better if I had a native speaker to practice with.”

 

She watched Clint Barton, aka Hawkeye, leave the store and stride across the street. He had a nice ass, she realized, and his humor had caught her off guard. Not once had he made any sexual comment, nor had he stared at her breasts, keeping his eyes on her face. That spoke highly of his training that he could avoid her charms and focus on her instead. Intriguing, that’s what he was. Maybe SHIELD was worth it to get to know Barton a little better; always a good idea to have a back up plan and a possible partner in crime waiting in the wings.

 

* * *

 

 

“You look like shit.”

 

Natasha squinted her not swollen eye and glared at Clint. “Hello to you too,” she grumbled. The milk run mission she’d left on had done a 180 into a clusterfuck of bad planning and terrible timing. If she and Melinda hadn’t been there, the whole team would be scattered over shattered concrete. But worse than the actual fighting had been the debrief; finger pointing and the blame game kept her stewing in her chair for three hours until Fury shouted at Johnson, their handler, about wounded not going to med bay.

 

“Come on.” Clint fell in step beside her. “I’ve got a bottle of Jack and ordered  pizza. You need food, a couple shots, a shower and then bed. Not necessarily in that order.”

 

“Did I miss a memo? Are you my keeper now?” The powers that be wanted them separated to ensure Clint wasn’t actively working with Natasha to bring down SHIELD. Different training regimes, a series of one handler after the next, they were rarely together due to their hectic schedules. But that didn’t stop them from finding each other; Clint had the maintenance and ventilation shafts memorized and there wasn’t a lock Natasha couldn’t get past. “Last I heard you weren’t supposed to be seen within ten feet of me.”

 

“Things change.” Clint opened the door to his room and ushered her in. “If you’d check your email you’d see we’ve been assigned to a brand new task force. The infamous Coulson’s going to be our new handler.”

 

“I thought he was Fury’s second in command.” She started stripping off her uniform, letting her pants pool on the floor. By the time she hit the door to the shower, she was naked. “If he’s in charge, must be more going on.”

 

She left the door open, an old habit to leave a clear line of sight. Hot water was still a luxury she rarely allowed herself; steam blocked her view but she set the dial to warm enough to chase away the last tension in her shoulders. Her shampoo bottle nestled besides Clint’s, her facial scrub on the corner shelf. Even when Clint was gone, she often stayed here, where the sheets smelled of Clint.

 

“I’m off to get the pizza,” Clint called.

 

By the time he got back, Natasha was curled up on the small loveseat in a tank top and shorts with a finger of whiskey over ice. Clint dropped the Best Pizza box onto the coffee table; the delicious smell of garlic and tomatoes filled the room. Grabbing the first slice, she bit into hot mozzarella and caramelized onions. As soon as Clint settled next to her, she swung her feet over his legs and tucked her toes beneath the cushion. As they ate, she filled him in on Melinda’s creative cursing during the fight and he regaled her with gossip about the latest recruits. She grew warm and sleepy, stomach full with good food and whiskey; the band of exhaustion weighed heavily behind her eyes.

 

“You need sleep.” Clint cajoled her under the covers. “I’ll keep watch.”

 

Clint cleaned up, went to the bathroom, flipped out the lights and then slipped in beside her, curling onto his side and spooning her between his body and the wall. With his arms around her, she could rest her head in the hollow of his neck, wind her feet with his and listen to his heartbeat. She relaxed, one muscle at a time, tension replaced with looseness, chill seeping out and warmth crawling in.

 

They never talked about it, never needed to. Nothing sexual at all but a connection just the same, built on trust and friendship and love. If Clint sometimes smelled of others, he certainly didn’t bring his one night stands here and Natasha didn’t care. If she needed to lay across him on the Quinjet, he straightened his legs out and made room. They touched frequently; he brushed back a curl and she tapped the back of his neck. Everyone assumed they were lovers, and everyone was right. Natasha loved Clint fiercely; she’d wade into hell and back to save him and he’d do the same for her. What did sex have to do with it?

 

* * *

 

 

“Your drink, sir.” Coulson, in full waiter gear, kept his head down and eyes turned away as he hid behind a pair of big black frames and thick lens. As soon as the tumbler was on the table, he was gone, weaving through the crowded bar and skirting the dance floor.

 

Jerry Davidson, Natasha’s mark, picked up the fresh drink and downed a large gulp of the fine scotch. “You ready to get out of here?” he asked.

 

The whole mission was falling apart; Davidson had a list of SHIELD undercover operatives in Latin America, but that was the only thing she knew for sure. Winging it, that’s what Clint called these types of situations, making up the op as they went along. When Davidson had started to leave, Natasha had done the only thing she could think of -- she went into seduction mode, targeting him and he fell for it within minutes, asking her up to his room. She’d stalled, asking for another drink, but her time had been running out before Phil appeared.

 

Snatching an almost empty bottle and taking her glass, she helped him out of the bar. By the time they got to the elevator, Davidson was weaving, unsteady on his feet. He backed Natasha into a corner and began humping her leg, his dick already hard.

 

“Oh, yeah,” he slurred, missing her neck and kissing the collar of her jacket instead.

 

She maneuvered him out the open doors and down to his room -- he kindly told her in a very loud voice which one was his -- and as soon as the door was shut, he fell into her and groaned, a wet stain appearing on his trousers.

 

“God, I’m sorry. I’ve never … you’re just so sexy … and I don’t know what ..” he mumbled.

 

Guiding him to his bed, she helped him sit down; he flopped over onto his back immediately. “I shouldn’t have had that last drink.”

 

“I think you’re right,” she agreed, hyper aware that the room was under surveillance by at least three other interested parties. Thus the blonde wig and colored contact lens. “Look, it’s okay. No problem. We can do this another time.”

 

“Yeah, tomorrow. After. Dinner and then real sex.”

 

He was fading fast. She helped him undress, running her hands along the seams and pockets as she did. The microdot was in his sock, of all places; with a deft hand she switched the fake data for the real one. Then she took the time to cover him up with the comforter, even leaving a bottle of water from the mini fridge on the nightstand beside the scotch bottle and glass. The note she left had her fake cell number -- he might call and they could track back his source more easily -- with a ‘call me!’ complete with little heart by her fake name.

 

Making sure to stay in surveillance camera range, she took the elevator down and exited through the main lobby doors, getting into the first waiting cabin in the queue. She gave the driver the address of the Bar Dupont and watched the busy streets of Washington DC until she arrived at her destination. A quick trip to the bathroom and she emerged a different person, exiting through the side entrance on New Hampshire and walking back to the Metro Station. It was a straight shot to the Gallery Place Station and a short stroll to the W Hotel, just two doors down from where she started.

 

“What was that all about?” She asked as she brushed past Phil when he let her in. “I had it under control. You took a risk being seen.”

 

“They’ll assume I’m another player if they even notice. Your identity is strong enough to withstand the scrutiny. Besides, Davidson has a reputation of drinking too much, so they’ll believe he passed out.” Phil engaged the biometric lock they’d added for security. “I promised you and I meant it. There were plenty of other options to get to him.”

 

She wasn’t used to people keeping their promises. When Phil had told her that sex was always optional, she didn’t believe him. It’s not like she hadn’t used the tactic before or that she’d do it again if necessary. So she shrugged and said, “It’s no big deal, Coulson. A quick blow job doesn’t mean anything.”

 

A warm hand dropped on her shoulder, a gentle touch that stilled her. Gazing up into Phil’s blue eyes, she wasn’t sure she wanted to see the concern there, the extra emotion laced around the edges. “It’s important to me; you shouldn’t have to do anything that makes you uncomfortable.”

 

The closest he’d ever come to acknowledging her sexuality; the statement sent a tendril of heat through Natasha, a tingle of response. What were the odds of finding two men who understood? That the three of them would wind up here, together, the most successful strike team in SHIELD?

 

“It’s not like I hate it or anything,” Natasha clarified. “It’s like … having to go to one of those annual safety seminars. Boring, not fun, but ultimately necessary.”

 

Phil shook his head, not understanding. “SHIELD makes exceptions for married agents, and you know that. There’s no reason the same can’t be true for you. Besides, Clint would shoot the guy and that would be the end of our trail to follow.”

 

“Nah, I wouldn’t waste the arrow,” Clint said, coming in from the balcony; he’d been tagging some of the other parties involved, the more clandestine part of the operation.“Natasha can handle herself.”

 

“On that point, we agree,” Phil said. “Everything in place for the surveillance van?”

 

“Of course.” Clint carefully collapsed his bow and put it away. “Too bad I missed the visuals on Davidson’s little accident. He went off like a firecracker.” Clint winked at Phil and Natasha saw it, the tiniest softening of Clint’s face.

 

A blush bloomed at the roots of Phil’s hairline, subtle but Natasha didn’t miss it. “Clint,” Phil warned.

 

“Of course, I don’t know anything about that.” Clint kept going, nudging Natasha’s shoulder with his own. “And I bet Phil doesn’t either.”

 

“And on that note, let’s get the data checked out and lock it down.” Phil changed the subject like he always did when Clint’s flirting got too close for comfort. Still, a shadow of a smile haunted his lips and his eyes flickered over Clint’s chest when Clint wasn’t looking.

 

Reading people. Natasha was a master. They hid it well, both trained to mask their emotions, but there was no denying the clues. The nervous jiggle of Clint’s leg when he sat too close to Phil. The tiny crack in Phil’s voice when Clint didn’t answer the comms. The utter concentration in Clint’s eyes when Phil told a story. The caring patience in Phil’s posture during Clint’s jokes.

 

She might not feel it, but she knew sexual attraction when she saw it. Especially when she was standing right between the longing glances.

 

* * *

 

 

“Are you sure about this guy?” Clint asked for the tenth time as they paused outside the door. If she didn’t know better she’d think Clint was jealous.

 

Instead of answering, she rapped her knuckles on the door. It opened immediately; a thin blonde eyed them up and down, blocking the way into the apartment. Phil then Clint were weighed in that gaze. When she got to Natasha, her face went stone cold. Stepping back, the woman turned and walked away without a word.

 

“Parker,” said the lovely dark haired woman in a perfect chanel suit. “We talked about this.” She tucked an arm around the blonde and guided her to a brown leather sofa.

 

“Hey, come on in.” Eliot opened his arms and the second she stepped into the strong embrace, Natasha’s worry dropped away. He smelled of sun and hay and leather, and his hair still tickled her cheek. “Don’t mind Parker. It’s professional jealousy; you beat her to the Emerald of Maldeze.”

 

“That was you?” Natasha took a second long look at Parker, the thief of Eliot’s new team. “Came down a vertical air shaft with metal walls; damn near impossible to fit through.”

 

“There’s no place Parker can’t get into,” the young, whipcord slim black man said. He offered his hand. “Alec Hardison. And can I say it’s an honor to meet real SHIELD operatives. You guys are the holy grail of the shadow world. LIke the Men in Black; I mean, you’re actually in black! Do you have the flashy thingys to make me forget? Am I going to remember this?”

 

“Hardison?” Eliot voice was laced with humor. “Take a breath, dude.”

 

Oh. Eliot might be hard to read, but Alex’s face was an open book as he glanced at Eliot. We are in a relationship, Hardison virtually screamed with his body language. “M.I.B., bro. Let me fanboy for a bit. I bet they know what’s in Area 51.”

 

“Agent Coulson? I’m Nate Ford.” A charming older man took charge of the conversation. “Eliot’s made his famous chili. Why don’t we sit down and talk while we eat?”

 

She’d expected to be uncomfortable -- new people, unknown threats, ex-lover -- but Eliot’s new team was obviously a family in the same way she and Clint and Phil were. Nate and Sophie were the parents, their own relationship relatively new and based upon mutual respect. Hardison was the funny one who wore his heart on his sleeve, making heart eyes at Parker and poking at Eliot to get a response out of him. Parker was the wild card, both childlike and a complete realist at the same time.

 

Eliot, well, the rough edges had been sanded away. He smiled more, touched often, and fit perfectly in between Hardison and Parker. Still a protector, he was theirs now in a way that made Natasha long for things she could never have. He caught her eyes more than once and grinned in the middle of his story about the time they jumped off a cliff to avoid pursuit and hid in one of the many caves along the shore of Montserrat.

 

As soon as Parker realized Clint was Hawkeye, she came to life, proclaiming that he was the reason she learned the trapeze and jumping up to show him her newest harness system that Alex had fashioned for her with electronic monitoring. She even warmed up to Phil when Clint told the story of the time Phil repelled down the side of the Chrysler Building in high winds.

 

It had been Natasha’s suggestion to use Eliot’s team for the mission. Their target, a pharmaceutical CEO who was diversifying into the illegal trial market, knew SHIELD was coming after her. So they were going to give her what she expected; while Strike Team Delta made their presence known, Nate and his team would come at her sideways where she’d least expect it -- through her husband’s philandering.

 

“You’re happy,” Natasha said to Eliot as she carried plates into the open kitchen. She nodded to where Hardison was on the couch, Parker perched on the back; he and Clint were pulling up increasingly funnier vines, trying to explain them to Parker. “Being good becomes you.”

 

“Yeah, well, I can’t take the credit. Hardison kinda grows on you and Parker wore me down.” Eliot rinsed the dish and put it in the dishwasher. “Took us a while to figure it out, but Parker always knew.”

 

“The three of you?” Natasha couldn’t help but glance at Phil where he was sipping at his glass of wine and talking to Nate and Sophia. She wanted to ask how it worked, but she couldn’t bring herself to say it out loud.

 

Eliot chuckled and leaned over the island countertop, looking fondly at Parker and Hardison. “I know, right? It started with Hardison’s crush on Parker and just spiraled from there. It’s unconventional, for sure, but we all get what we need.” He turned his body to face her. “And what about you? Did you ever find what you were looking for?”

 

Clint laughed, tossing his head back to reveal the long line of his neck. “Maybe,” she answered honestly. “But sometimes I think there might be more. If we could straighten things out.”

 

“What you need is someone to take charge,” Eliot suggested. “Parker came to me one day out of the blue and said that Alec wanted to fuck me and she wanted to watch.” He laughed. “God, that’s so like her. She enjoys her role as director. Maybe you need to be blunt. Guys can sometimes not see the forest for the trees.”

 

Phil had loosened his tie and taken off his jacket. With his sleeves rolled up, he looked younger and more relaxed. The tension hadn’t eased between Phil and Clint; if anything, the looks of unrequited longing were only getting worse.

 

“Are you talking about me?” Parker jumped up on the counter and sat cross legged, interposing herself between the two of them. “Hardison says I’ve nothing to worry about, but I’ve never met my boyfriend’s exe before. Never had a boyfriend before, much less two. Do you plan on trying to take Eliot away? ‘Cause I’ll stop you even if you are the Black Widow.”

 

“She reminds me of you sometimes,” Eliot said with a big grin.

 

“Eliot and I are just friends,” Natasha told her. “He’s happy here and I want him to be happy.”

 

Parker glared at her for another few seconds then sat up and smiled. “Good. Because he’s my right side and that’s important.”

 

“Right side?” Natasha had never heard that phrase before.

 

“Eliot’s on the right side and Alec’s on the left. I get the middle. I like sleeping between them,” Parker announced. “Best thing is after they get all sweaty, they’re warmer than a blanket and the nights get cold here.”

 

“Makes sense,” Natasha said flashing to Clint’s arms around her and thinking what another set curled around from behind her would be like. “Yes, I can see the allure in that.”

 

“Allure. I like that word. That’s what it is. Alluring,” Parker agreed. “And none of that yucky sex for me. Alluring.”

 

“Hey, Tasha! You’ve got to come watch this cat in the snow. It’s the best thing ever!” Clint called. She shrugged at Eliot’s raised eyebrow, picked up her glass of wine, crossed the room, and settled on the back of Clint’s chair. “Play it again. And the one with the flying fairy doll. Oh God that one’s hilarious.”

 

Eliot followed, offering beers to Alec and Clint and keeping one for himself. As easy as if he did it everyday, he took the opposite end of the couch; Parker jumped the back and squeezed between the two men, happily stealing Eliot’s beer for a sip.

 

“I love the ninja cat. Show the ninja cat,” she said, leaning over Hardison’s shoulder.

 

Walking over, Phil stood behind Natasha and Clint, close enough for her sense his body heat but not touching. Guarding their backs, protecting them. As laughter rang out, the cat barreling through a snow drift, Eliot caught Natasha’s eye and gave her a contented smile.

 

* * *

 

 

“He’s in recovery,” yet another nameless doctor said. “It will be a couple hours before he wakes and we know how successful the surgery was. Best we can do now is just wait.”

 

Natasha unfolded her legs,stretched then stood up. The plastic chairs were less than comfortable but she gave no sign of her aches. Never let them see you’re vulnerable. Lesson number two of the Red Room.

 

“Can he have visitors?” Phil hadn’t left the room since they’d wheeled Clint down from the jet. He’d stayed busy, working on his tablet, looking for the world like it was just another day. But Natasha could see his tells, the nervous tics so small that most people didn’t notice. The image of Clint, stepping in front of Phil, shoving Phil out of the way as a bullet ripped through his chest, had to be playing over and over again in Phil’s head. It was the main attraction in Natasha’s mental theatre.

 

“Only room for one in the ICU,” the doctor replied. “But it will be a while …”

 

“Thank you.” Phil dismissed the man and turned to Natasha. “Go. You know how he is when he wakes up from anesthesia..”

 

She hesitated until the doctor left. “You have every right to be there,” she told Phil.

 

That surprised him; he turned  confused eyes upon her. “He’ll want you.”

 

“He wants you too.” She didn’t beat around the bush once she decided to face a problem. “But he thinks he’ll have to give up me to get you. That he can only have one night stands. And you’d be more than that.”

 

Never let it be said that Phil Coulson was anything but quick. He understood immediately what she was saying. “Are you saying he’s wrong?”

 

“There are two men I trust in this world; turns out they’re in love with each other. Unfortunately, they’re both self-sacrificing idiots.” She stepped closer, into Phil’s personal space. “You can give him what I can’t. He deserves to be happy.””

 

“And what about you? What do you deserve?” Phil’s fingers circled her wrist, a light hold that sent a shiver along her spine.

 

“It’s not an either or proposition, Phil. Why can’t we all have what we want?” Her mind supplied so many reasons why this wouldn’t work, spinning out scenarios where Phil walked away or Clint left her for Phil or she couldn’t handle their intimacy. But they couldn’t stay in this limbo.

 

“I don’t know if Clint …” Phil sighed. “And I never want to make you uncomfortable.”

 

“He’s crazy about you,” Natasha assured him “And I’m the one asking. Now, go be there when he wakes. Tell him. Life’s too short to not take the chance.”

 

He stroked a finger lightly on the inside of her wrist. “To be clear, I want both of you.”

 

“Glutton for punishment,” she said, allowing a tiny smile to show through her usual mask. “It’s going to be a hell of a lot of work for you.”

 

“You’re worth it,” he replied.

 

* * *

 

 

“Oh, God, Nat.”  Clint tilted his head back over her leg, squeezing the hand he was holding as he gasped out the words on the edge of a groan. She grazed her fingertips through his sweaty hair, along the line of his jaw and down the taut muscle of his neck.

 

“That’s it,” she told Phil. “That’s the look we want.”

 

Phil shifted slightly, hooking one of Clint’s knees over his shoulder and lifting Clint’s hips from the bed. He eased in another inch, cradling Clint’s ass with his hands. The low light in the room cast long shadows across the bed, throwing both men into stark contrast. The bulk of Clint’s arms and thighs clenched tight, Phil’s leaner torso leaning forward. She didn’t have a view of where they were joined; she preferred the arch of Clint’s back and the tilt of Phil’s head. What she loved was the intense concentration on Phil’s face, the way he caught his lower lip with his teeth as he held himself back, teasing Clint and bringing him to the very edge before giving him what he wanted. Hearing the gravel in Clint’s voice as he gasped out first Phil and then Natasha’s name. The sleepy boneless way they collapsed after, the slippage of slick skin against skin that gave such pleasure. She’d hesitated to watch at first, and sometimes she was perfectly happy on the couch while they were in bed, but she’d discovered that what made them feel good made her feel the same way.

 

“Come on, Phil,” Clint practically begged. “I need … I want … please.”

 

To see them this way -- completely open and exposed, nothing hidden -- was the ultimate expression of trust. Clint, out of words and snarky comments, whispering his desires to them both. Phil, out of his suit and professional mask, telegraphing his emotions across his face. Letting her into their most intimate moment. It was the headiest high she’d ever known.

 

They moved together, Phil giving, Clint taking, and then Clint moaned, body bowing up as he came. Phil continued for another few thrusts and he too was gone; he sagged forward as he sighed and Natasha ran a finger along his cheek. Bending down, Phil kissed Clint, their heads together in Natasha’s lap, and then he rolled over onto his back, breathing hard.

 

“You okay?” Phil asked her, reaching out a hand and taking her free one, connecting them all through her.

 

“Hey!” Clint protested. “I’m the one who just got fucked into the mattress.”

 

Natasha dropped Clint’s hand, slapped him on the shoulder and slid his head off her lap. “I’m better than okay, Phil.” She got up and padded across the room to the bedroom door. “While you two do the post-coital thing, I’ll run the night lockdown.”

 

They needed a bigger place, she thought as she systematically checked the door and windows in Phil’s apartment, one that wasn’t his or his or hers. With space for a king size bed and a bigger shower, one with two shower heads with a bench to shave her legs. And a six burner stove. She liked to bake and Clint could actually cook if he could be talked into it. A fancy coffee maker for Phil and a walk-in closet for his suits. Maybe a second bedroom redone as a gym.

 

She paused at the foot of bed, caught by the sight of the two of them twined together, kissing sleepy and slow. Heat flushed through her, a pleasure so deep that she wanted to fall into it and never let go.

 

“Tasha?” Clint held out his hand and Phil scooted back to make room.

 

Crawling in between them, Natasha wiggled down into the bed as Phil spooned up to her back and Clint snuggled her in his arms. Tugging up the covers, Phil nuzzled his nose into her hair and tucked his feet between Clint and Natasha’s. They smelled of sex and musk, coffee and gun oil, and Natasha reveled in it. Closing her eyes, she relaxed and breathed deeply, safe within the arms of the men she loved.

 

“Go to sleep,” Phil told her. “We’ve got you.”

 

And she did.

 

 


End file.
